Why I go back to the park sometimes at 5:00 or 5:30. We’re good acquaintances. He sometimes visits the bench where I read earlier in the day, or salutes me with his head when I pass. He’s not giving up a good, shady spot if it’s just me. He only startles and bolts if I accidentally sneak up on him. In the evening I sit at the bench across from his usual branch. We don’t need to talk, like two old men who’ve exhausted their stories. I’m done in and his night’s just starting so we just sit in New Orleans’ July torpor, hoping for the last breath of breeze.
Well Bottom Blues 
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